The green vine is moving. The motion's too slow to be visible but it is racing, racing feeling for a way across the wall of fence it's scrawling on, inches added every day. Forwarding, sunwarding, it claims its place. Green states its claim. It writes the lesson of the day: longing, longing coming true while arcing out and up according to the instruction of desire. Sun-hungry its tip has tilted toward sun-space. Already it is speeding leaf-notes out of its root all along the sprigless budless thread still scribbling the deed of its location. In two weeks or one or four morning glory.